to build a home
by bloodbuzz
Summary: He's alone in his golden room with his ghosts. AU.


"only the dead have seen the end of war."  
—plato

* * *

"In Greek mythology, there is a tale of a great King of Phrygia," the girl, aged about twenty — so more of a woman —voices. "Midas, as he was known, derived great satisfaction from the pleasures of life and in the keeping of his pristine garden.

"One day, Silenus, the satyr of the god Dionysus, wandered into the rose garden of Midas. He was found there and was made an honored guest of the king for five days and five nights. At the end of that time, Midas safely returned Silenus to the god; and for his duty, Dionysus rewarded Midas with one wish.

"Despite Dionysus' best efforts to warn the king, Midas wished for everything he touched to turn to gold. Having promised Midas one wish, Dionysus delivered. Midas was thrilled with his new gift. His touch turned everything to gold — even his beloved roses. He called up a feast and sat down to eat. His thrill turned to horror, however, as his feast and wine turned to gold beneath his fingers.

"Legend has it," the caregiver starts, "that Midas once—"

In the next room, Marvel does his absolute best to block the silly tale out. Today is his last day at the caregiver's house. His training starts tomorrow, and he doesn't need childish stories distracting him. He practices controlling his breathing and mastering his stance. He imagines the weight of the sword in his grip and tests the waters with a broom, swinging it back and forth, mindful of the fragile ornamentations surrounding him. The caregiver's voice carries through the cerulean wall, and Marvel hears about how the richest man in the world grazed his daughter's hand and turned the blood in her veins to gold.

On the screen, Gilt Feist swings his sword — an actual sword, all sharp, deadly, and beautiful — at his opponent, a tribute from one of the outer districts. The sword leaves a deep, red gash in its wake. A cannon sounds and the camera zooms in on Gilt's face. It's covered with dirt and his eyes are shining a bright blue, nothing short of deadly.

There's a rapping on the door, and Marvel looks up. Gilt is leaning against the doorframe; there are crater-deep smile wrinkles around his eyes and his cheeks are wind-burned from the chilled air. "Ready to go?"

Even though Marvel will be ten years old when he awakes in the morning, he runs into his father's arms and relishes the strong grip of the hug. Gilt picks Marvel up and swings him around; he laughs and kicks his feet happily.

Gilt carries him across the room to alert the caregiver of their departure. She follows them back out the door and when Gilt sits Marvel down, she bends down to envelop him in a hug. "I'll miss you, Marvel," she says. He ducks his face as it heats up. "You'll make a humble Victor, just like your father here." It's Gilt's turn to blush.

They bid her farewell for the last time and begin their journey back to the Victor's Village, walking on the streets with their hands firmly locked together. There's still a thin dusting of snow on the asphalt and Marvel wants nothing more than to skip ahead and bury himself in the piles of snow on the banks off the road.

When Gilt turns the key, the lock gives way and the door opens to the well-welcomed warmth of the hallway. Patina Feist greets them in the archway to the kitchen, the aroma of roasted gooseling wafting from behind her.

Dinner is a quiet affair in the Feist house. Every Capitol-provided Avox sent to ease their living was sent away at the door with a smile and a no, thank you, so Gilt and Patina work together to keep the house running smoothly. On occasions that they all try to forget, Gilt had tried his hand at making dinner and every member of the household had been thankful for the fireproof kitchen equipment. As a result, Patina does the cooking, Gilt is in charge of making everything shine, and Marvel decorates with his homemade trinkets and baubles.

After dinner, Marvel is set to bathe and prepare for bed. He has an early morning and a big day tomorrow, after all. As he's crawling into bed, Gilt enters the room and flicks the light off. He proceeds to sit on the edge of Marvel's bed and tuck the blankets under his chin.

"Son," he starts, "you don't have to go tomorrow."

Marvel sits up in his position, voiding all the work Gilt had done in making him comfortable. "But I want to, Daddy."

"You're only turning ten tomorrow," Gilt says. "No one will think any less of you if you don't start tomorrow, or ever, really. And if they do, then their opinion doesn't matter anyway.

Marvel abandons the warmth of his covers altogether and moves to sit beside Gilt, feet not quite touching the floor yet. "But, Daddy," Marvel's voice goes up a few octaves so that it's just shy of whining. He coughs and his voices returns to normal as he says, "I have to start training if I want to be a Victor like you and Mummy."

When Gilt smiles, it's a mixture of sadness and love. He nudges Marvel under the covers and tucks him in again. He bends down to kiss Marvel on the forehead and walks to the door. Before he shuts it behind him, he leans in and says, "Just remember that there's no shame in not being a Victor. No one is going to force you to volunteer." With that, the door clicks shut and within minutes, Marvel is asleep.

* * *

It takes almost two years of training, but the moment the trainer places the spear in his hand and shows him how to grip it, the world feels right. He pulls the spear behind his shoulder and launches it, arm unfurling to point at the target. It's the first time he's ever held a spear, let alone thrown one, but when he and the trainer walk the fifty yards to examine the target, it's half an inch from the bull's-eye.

"Marvel," Brill observes, "I think we've found your weapon." His remark isn't made lightly. Over the course of two years, he's tried out almost every weapon in the district's arsenal. When he was just a quivering and overactive ten-year-old boy, he'd wanted nothing more than to wield the sword just like his father. It hadn't taken long for half the district to find out what an accidental force to be reckoned with Marvel was with the longblade. Gilt and Brill made the decision that he lacked the innate control required to brandish the foil.

He had been crushed for half a moment before Brill had presented him with a fresh-polished dagger. They had set to work immediately, working on hand-to-hand combat techniques and how to work with the weight of the dagger in his palm. By the end of the fortnight, the dagger was like an extension of his right hand. It hadn't felt right, though, so they'd moved on.

So, Marvel had trained, and then he had trained more. He trained on his birthdays and on holidays, and even on days when it rained so much he almost had to swim to the training center. He was proficient in the knowledge and use of almost all the weapons, but none of them were his weapon.

Until now.

"This is my weapon," he says, running his fingertips over the short distance between the metal tip and the bull's-eye. He wrenches the tip from where it's lodged in the wall. "I want to try again."

His pace is brisk as he makes his way to the fifty-yard marker, Brill following just behind him. The plastic shaft of the spear is smooth and already familiar in his fist; the weight is comfortable and welcomed. This is his weapon.

The second time he throws from the fifty-yard marker, the spear lands right in the center of the red circle. He fists the air and lets out a whoop that mimics a war cry, a true twelve-year-old boy.

"So," Brill begins, "you've got the fifty-yard marker mastered, but can you go further?" Brill challenges. Marvel just grins, elated and invincible in this moment, and makes his way to the seventy-five yard marker. His two throws from this line both make it into the prized and worn red circle.

By the end of the day, Marvel has thrown ten times in a row from the hundred-yard marker, and all of them have fallen within three-quarters of an inch of the bull's-eye.

He exits the main training room with sweat dripping down his face and a promise to start on the moving targets first thing in the morning. Brill just laughs and pats his back.

* * *

Sometimes, Marvel's parents have their friends over. The nights they hold dinner parties are his favorite. He has the chance to dress up and show his neighbors and merchants around the garden and into the brightly colored open spaces of his house. His mother always makes sure to point out his artwork from before he went to training and he never fails to blush. His parents' friends always laugh good-naturedly and reassure him of the importance of art.

Many faces come and go at these parties, but he will never forget the redolence of the ocean he's only been to once that followed one couple through the door. The man walked in like he owned the house, but the woman with him followed quietly, looking utterly out of place.

The man bows down to greet Marvel, then stretches his hand out in an invitation. Marvel takes it and grips as hard as he can. "Hi, there," the man says softly, in contrast to his demanding presence. "I'm Finnick. You must be Marvel?" Finnick's voice rises at the end of his sentence like a question, but Finnick doesn't seem like a man that needs to question anything. "Can you give me the tour?"

When the guests withdraw to his father's study, he's supposed to turn into bed. He waits until his father has been by to check on him and his mother has kissed him goodnight, then he tiptoes out into the hallway. It's an adrenaline rush and he can't hear much over the rapid thumping of his own heart, but words like "revolution" and others he can't recall the meaning to, uttered in hushed whispers, are burnt into his mind.

He tries the word out on his tongue. It tastes foreign. He hears movement from within the room, and Marvel hurls himself back into the comfort of his own bed.

At school the next day, he asks his Capitol-educated teacher what the word means, and her eyes widen for a fraction of a second before she snaps, "No such word exists, Marvel, now study your grammar books."

* * *

Marvel turns fifteen and another Reaping passes. It's a bright, late spring day and the mayor hasn't dressed this extravagantly since the last Reaping. Their escort, Octavian, is dressed in an offensive and obtrusive purple suit and his flesh is embedded with an infinite amount of jewels, each looking more painful than the last. He is one of the first boys there and he tries to count the slips and his odds of being Reaped. He and his father have been arguing about him volunteering for a month now, and this morning he had been told, in no uncertain terms, that he is absolutely forbidden from volunteering.

His parents are announced with their usual burst of love and applause. Cashmere and Gloss are introduced next, and the roar is almost deafening. The mayor's speech is dull and lifeless; it's a disgrace to the district's flair. Octavian makes short work of the Reaping.

The female Reaped is scrawny and short. Just as Octavian moves to the boy's dome, a girl Marvel recognizes from the training center, Juna, declares her intent to volunteer. The scrawny girl shakes with relief and steps down off the stage, passing Juna on her way back into the arms of her waiting family. Juna climbs the steps with her back ramrod straight and her shoulders squared, prideful.

Octavian calls out the male tribute's name and a boy walks forward, aged sixteen years, if he recalls correctly. Marvel is miles ahead of him in training and he itches to volunteer, to call out the four words, walk up onto the stage and board the train to the Capitol with his parents.

Almost as if he knows what he's thinking — and let's be honest, he absolutely does — Gilt is already staring at him when he glances over, every line of his face screaming a resolute no. Marvel sighs and slumps into the crowd.

After the Reaping, Marvel walks with his aunt Ray to the station to send his parents off. They're waiting on the platform, and his mom wraps her arms around him like a death grip. "I love you, Marvel," she says, stroking his buzzed hair.

"I love you, too, Mum," he replies, kissing her on the cheek. When he turns to his father, Gilt is waiting with his arms open.

"I love you, Dad," Marvel says, pulling back from the hug to shake his hand. His father just smiles back at him. Marvel would almost say he looks proud.

"Ray has agreed to stop by and check on you regularly while we're in the Capitol. You know the rules by now," his father says. "No girls over, no parties, and no doing anything illegal. Do you understand?"

Marvel grins and nods. Gilt rolls his eyes. "I love you, son. Behave yourself."

With one last hug from both, they board the train and it zips off into the distance.

In the past, the Games have always dragged on because Marvel can't wait for his parents to return. With his training being relatively independent at this point, it helps pass the time. Nine tributes die at the bloodbath. Each time he hears the cannon go off, he runs around the training center three times. He starts throwing sacks of rocks as far as they'll go. Juna steps on a strategically placed land mine. Marvel doesn't stop running for hours.

In the end, it's the male tribute from District One — the one he yearned to volunteer for — who emerges from the arena alive. He's missing half his right arm and bleeding out, but his heart is still beating.

The sun is beating down on Marvel and Ray as they wait at the station. And wait. And wait. And wait.

He's just about to ask if the train is even coming today when the sun catches it in the distance. In less than a minute, it slides to a stop in front of the platform. Marvel leaps to his feet and stands behind the loading line. Cashmere and Gloss saunter out, new Victor shambling in tow. He tries to call out to them, but they won't meet his eye.

Ray's face is grim. Confused, hot, and hungry, Marvel follows her back to his house in Victor's Village. Ray says very little to him the rest of the night, just looks wounded as she cooks dinner for the two of them. At the end of the day, she announces that she's staying with him tonight. The question is burning on the tip of his tongue, but he looks at his aunt, face dripping with exhaustion, and turns away.

After the lights have all gone out, he can hear her sobbing in the guest bedroom.

At high noon, just as lunch is being served, there is a knock on the door. Ray is still in the kitchen, so he trudges to the door and pulls in open. There, on the other side of the threshold, is the most powerful man in Panem. He looks much less impressive in person.

"President Snow?" he blurts out. "Um, what are you doing at my house?" Marvel mentally slaps himself for that, and physically slaps a hand over his mouth. As an afterthought, he bows. "I apologize, sir. I meant, how might I help you?"

The president actually chuckles and asks, "May I come in?"

Marvel nods and steps to the side. "Of course, sir."

Ray walks out of the kitchen and starts to say, "Who —?" before she sees the president in the foyer. For an instant, hate flashes across her face but she immediately schools it blank and bows. "Mr. President, welcome. Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you, Miss Feist. May I have a seat?"

Ray leads the president into the parlor and Marvel follows, sitting beside her and opposite Snow. "I don't mean to be blunt," Ray starts, "but what brings you here, Mr. President?"

"Not good news, I'm afraid," Snow replies, folding his hands over his lap. "There was an altercation the day of the victory celebration. Marvel, your parents encountered a morphling addict on their way to the lodging quarters from the main party. Your father tried to help the man, but the altercation turned violent. They were found not long after, and the medics did their best, but it was to no avail. I extend my deepest sympathy."

Marvel just stares at Snow, and then flicks his eyes between his aunt and the president. The president is very discernibly lying; it's like he's not even trying to convince them. He's about to say something, but then Ray says, "May we see their bodies, sir?"

Snow shakes his head almost mournfully. "According to procedure, they were buried in the most prestigious Capitol burial plaza. The idea of bringing them here was discussed, but ultimately it was ruled disrespectful. I'm sorry."

The silence engulfs them again and Marvel wonders if it's possible to choke on nothing. Snow clears his throat and says, "I hate to bring it up at a time like this, but seeing as no Victor will be inhabiting this house, the contracts state that the Capitol must repossess it. Do you have anywhere you can go, Marvel? If not, there's a lovely institution in the Capitol —"

"My nephew will be staying with me," Ray declares, and it rings final. "I have no intentions of being rude, Mr. President, but my nephew and I must mourn, and we would much prefer to do so in peace."

Shock crosses the president's face for half a second, but he clears it almost effortlessly. "Very well, Miss Feist. It was lovely to meet you and I regret that it was under such circumstances." President Snow stands and walks to the front door. "And Marvel," he says, hand on the knob, "good luck with your training. I look forward to seeing you at the Reaping."

The door slams shut and Ray's feet give out from under her. She falls back into the uncomfortable chair and long, dry sobs rack her body. Unsure as to what to do, Marvel moves to sit beside her and brings his aunt into his arms, and just holds her.

Marvel heads down to the marketplace to collect boxes. When he returns, Ray is already meticulously sorting all of his belongings into piles. He directs her to put all of his childish artwork into the rubbish pile, and they move on with their cleaning. They grab all the memories they can of his parents, but leave most of their material belongings.

On the second afternoon of their packing, Marvel happens across a snowflake ornament he made when he was seven. It was nothing special, just the product of glue, foam, and glitter, but his mom had insisted on keeping it to be festive. He looks around for signs of his aunt and shoves it in his pocket.

"Are we going to talk about how he was lying?" he asks over lunch on the third day. Lunch is nothing special, just sandwiches and water. Patina had always thought that lunch was the overlooked meal, so she would make it over-the-top. Ray didn't share the sentiment, and Marvel didn't have it in him to request anything else of her.

She drops the plate she's holding and it explodes into a thousand tiny pieces. "Not here," she hisses, so he drops the subject.

He finds a weathered and sealed piece of parchment shoved to the very back of his mother's bedside drawer. Opposite the seal are the words To Read on the Train,so Marvel tucks the letter into his jacket and turns the lights out in the room.

By the end of the week, they have everything they don't need packed tightly into brown square boxes and they carry them across town to Ray's spacious-yet-not-home house, piling them in neat stacks in the unused parlor. They return to the Victor's Village one last time and Marvel sits alone in his old room and cries. He lies down in his bed and waits, half-expecting his father to come through the door and tuck his covers under his chin like he did when Marvel was small.

What he gets is Ray with a heartbroken look etched in the lines of her face. He jumps out of the bed like it's burning him and makes it one last time.

He turns the key in the lock and says a silent goodbye to his childhood home. It feels like he's bidding farewell to his childhood as well.

As he's walking away, he catches Cashmere staring at him from behind her curtains.

* * *

The morning of the Reaping arrives quietly. Marvel awakes in a room that still doesn't feel like his, with walls painted dark blue and a bed made from the feathers of a mockingjay.

He dresses swiftly, dragging his best suit from the back of his closet. He pulls it on with the ease of practice and checks himself in the mirror. Ray is waiting in the kitchen with breakfast and her face is a battle of pride and worry. "You don't have to do this, Marvel," she says.

He bites from his poached egg and says, "I think we both know I do, Ray," and pride wins the battle on her face.

"You'd better get going then, tribute." Marvel nods and kisses her on the cheek. He runs back to his room and grabs the letter, to read on the train, and tucks it into the breast pocket of his suit. Then, he's out the door and walking to the square.

When he arrives, there's already a small crowd hovering around the stage. The mayor is on stage, practicing his speech. Marvel checks in with the peacekeepers and the mayor catches his eye.

There's pity in the mayor's glance.

There's pity everywhere, lately.

Octavian arrives with a flourish and the Reaping begins. The name he pulls from the girl's dome is that of a twelve-year-old, birthday last week. She's shivering as she walks up to the stage and Marvel waits. There's silence until she reaches the bottom step, but then from the middle of the girls' section, someone says, "I volunteer as tribute."

Octavian looks like he wants to roll his eyes. Such go the Reapings in a Career district.

A leggy blonde is walking to the stage now, a spring in her step and bounce in her hair. She stands right beside Octavian and he proffers the microphone for the girl to introduce herself.

She smiles wickedly; he can see it from here. "My name is Glimmer Ives," she says, almost like a command. "I volunteer as tribute."

When Octavian draws the boy's name, Marvel doesn't even wait for him to get to the aisle before the four words are out of his mouth. He marches to the stage like a soldier and says into the microphone, "My name is Marvel Feist and I volunteer as tribute."

In the far corner of the square, he can see Brill frowning.

They board the train in a procession. It's barely taken off before Glimmer swirls and jabs her finger in his chest. "_Don't_ get in my way," she orders.

Marvel doesn't reply. He just sits down on the plush couch. He saw the way Glimmer fondled it with wonder and knows she must be from _that_ part of town, where they convert the graphite to diamonds and where half the girls are named just so. It explains why he's never seen her face at the training center. His parents' house was filled with furniture to match this.

He retrieves the letter from his breast pocket and breaks the wax seal. From across the table, Glimmer asks, "What is that?"

Marvel stiffens, but deadpans, "It's a letter." Glimmer scoffs and doesn't say anything else. He unfolds the letter and nearly cries out at the sight of his mother's handwriting. He considers searching for privacy on the secret-less train, but when he looks up, Glimmer is staring at her hands with hard determination.

_Marvel,_

_I would hope that your father and I are there to tell you this in person, but we are both aware of the very real chance that we will not be._

_Ever since you were small, you wanted to be a tribute. We chuckled along with you but it frightened us to our bones for you to ever be in the position we were in. We would occasionally try to talk you out of it, but you were as stubborn as your father and I combined. That would be our luck._

_If you're reading this, it most likely means your father and I are dead. We want you to know that we love you more than anything else in this world and that everything we did was for you._

_We also know that you, as our son and as a person, will one day probably end up on the path that we were on._

_Don't do that._

_Your father and I were doing dangerous things with our friends and if President Snow ever heard word of what happened at our meetings, he would surely make sure we were permanently silenced._

_This is why if you win — and you will, you're so brilliant and focused — you must not go up against President Snow, despite everything._

_Good luck, Marvel._

_I love you._

_—Mum_

Without realizing, Marvel crumples the parchment between his fingers.

"What's your damage, then?" Glimmer asks, and Marvel doesn't answer. He just stares straight ahead at nothing, willing the train to come to a stop. His legs are burning and he needs to just run without stopping or having to think.

Through a cloud of fog, he can hear Gloss saying something to him, talking about tactics or whatever, but all of his focus is on the ball of parchment in his hand.

* * *

The elevator doors slide open and Marvel steps into the training center. It's easily twice the size of his home training center and three times as stocked. He bypasses all the knot-tying and camouflage stations and doesn't stop until he's in front of the simulation room. He grabs a spear from where it's suspended by the wall, and the weight is familiar in his hands.

The simulation is a breeze. It may be fancier and newer than the machine back in One, but it's no harder than what he's been doing since he was twelve. The enemies manifest in all corners of the room, over his shoulder and above his head. Brill trained him to be calm in any situation, and projected opponents are the least of all his worries. He finishes his simulation, exits the room, and walks right into a wall.

The wall chuckles and extends his hand. Marvel glares at the outstretched appendage and takes it, accepting the help up. "I'm Cato," the wall says. "District Two."

Marvel nods, because he knows. "I'm Marvel. District One."

Cato nods, because he knows, too. He turns his head to the knife station, to where Glimmer is attempting to balance the weapon correctly. The girl from District Two, Clove, is giving Glimmer instructions. Cato says, "I believe we're allies."

Marvel nods, because he'd honestly rather have this monster of a boy on his side than not. "Just us?" he asks.

Cato shakes his head and points to the weights station, where the District Four female is lifting eighty pounds above her head and not breaking a sweat. "Okay," he says.

* * *

His powder blue suit is sticking to his body and the fluorescent lights are burning his flesh. Caesar Flickerman smiles and thanks him for his time. Marvel throws his arms above his head and war whoops before walking off the stage. It's like when he was twelve and learning how to throw a spear for the first time.

He passes Glimmer on her way up the stairs and squeezes her hand in support. If they're going to be allies, Marvel supposes, they might as well be friendly.

The doors to the waiting area open and the District Four tributes are just arriving. One of their mentors has his back turned to Marvel and he's waving his hands animatedly to prove some point. The male tribute looks like he's about thirteen, which is weird for a Career district, but he holds his head high as he marches to the stage area to wait his turn.

The mentor turns to watch him go and Marvel catches sight of his face. He recognizes the mentor immediately and realizes why his overbearing presence in the room was so familiar.

"Finnick Odair," Marvel says like a declaration. Finnick stares at him for a minute before identifying him. He sends his last tribute to the stage and pulls Marvel to a corner.

"Marvel," he says. He still smells of the ocean. "How are you?"

Marvel doesn't answer. Instead, he says, "Why are you alive?" It's like an accusation.

"Excuse me?"

"I know what you and my parents were planning. Now, they're dead and you're not. I want to know why."

Realization dawns on Finnick's, and he slumps onto a nearby bench, motioning for him to do the same. Marvel remains standing.

"First, you are never allowed to mention that again unless you want us to both be dead. The Capitol had evidence against your parents. They did not against me."

He sits down next to Finnick and they stay there. "You have to win," Finnick says to break the silence.

"What about your tributes?" Marvel asks, shocked.

"It doesn't mean as much to them. You'll be a better Victor," is all Finnick says before Gloss is walking up to them.

"Finnick!" Gloss exclaims, embracing Finnick as he stands. "We really must keep in contact in between the Games, Odair." Finnick starts to say something, but Gloss interrupts. "I'd love to catch up, but Marvel and I must be going. Come along, Marvel."

Marvel nods to Finnick and follows after Gloss.

* * *

Marvel is jolted awake by the sharp stings piercing his hide. His reflexes are nothing short of excellent, so within seconds he's up and running after Cato. The icy water of the lake eases the burning of his flesh and it's not until his head is back above water that he realizes that she's not there. He calls out for Cato, who grunts his response, and Clove, who is still shrieking. Glimmer doesn't respond.

He's out of the water with Cato calling after him. Marvel thinks he hears footfalls behind him, but he doesn't look behind him to check. He hears two cannons sound and he propels himself even faster down the path until he gets back to the camp. The District Four girl is being lifted into the hovercraft when he arrives, but he can still see Glimmer's body on the ground. He starts to run to her, but there are strong arms holding him back and he screams as loud as he can. He kicks and pulls but the arms never release him.

"She's gone," Cato says, and he sounds hurt. The hovercraft claws close around her body and before he knows it, the doors to the hovercraft are closing and the craft is flying off. If anyone notices the District Twelve boy is missing, no one mentions it.

They make a new camp around the Cornucopia and enlist the District Three boy to construct a field of mines surrounding it. The boy teaches them the path and they all run it until they collapse in front of the Cornucopia.

They all sleep fitfully that night.

When the careers wake in the morning, there's smoke rising in the distance. "I'll go," Marvel says. He hadn't been sleeping well, anyway. Cato and Clove grunt in response and close their eyes.

He walks alone, and doesn't think about blonde hair or emerald eyes or the families that are torn apart every year. When he's been walking about thirty minutes, he hears the loudest noise he's ever heard in his life, followed by screaming and three cannons. Marvel briefly considers turning back, but instead trudges on. The smoke isn't that far away now.

He comes into a clearing and sees one of the traps he set has been sprung. The little girl from District Eleven is squirming against the ropes. He's about to approach her when he hears the girl from District Twelve screaming. He runs into the denser edges of the clearing and hides as the girl runs into the clearing, headed straight for the District Eleven girl.

District Twelve unknots his trap well enough. When the girl from District Eleven is standing, she points to where Marvel is hiding. Without thinking, Marvel launches his spear in their direction. Twelve sidesteps the spear but the metal tip and part of the shaft lodge heavily in the abdomen of Eleven. Blood blossoms around the entry point and shines gold around the spear.

Twelve screams in despair and nocks an arrow, sending it flying directly at his neck. He recalls years of defense training with Brill. The trainer would target him with blunt instruments to enhance his reflexes, and Marvel imagines the arrow flying toward him as blunt as the arrows Brill would use. He can see the glint off the tip of the arrow and he throws himself to the ground. The tendrils of grass tease the nerves of his face. Twelve's arrow zooms past him and sticks in the bark of the tree behind him.

* * *

Marvel blinks his eyes open, then squeezes them shut against the light. He waits a few moments, and then he tries again. The light is an almost blinding white and his nostrils burn when he inhales the antiseptic scent. When the blurriness in his vision disappears, he sees a figure in the corner, and for a second, he thinks it's his father. He calls out to it.

The figure sits up and walks over. "Marvel," Gloss says, and Marvel closes his eyes again. The last thing he remembers is being lifted from the arena by the awful grip of the hovercraft, thinking he was dead.

"Where am I?" He coughs and reaches around for something to wet his throat. "Water?"

Gloss hands him a glass and helps him sit up. The cool water is like an avalanche racing down his throat. "You're in the Capitol, back in the room you stayed in during training."

"Why am I here?" Marvel asks, easing himself back down.

Gloss chuckles and pats his arm. "You won the Hunger Games, Marvel," he says. "You're a Victor."

* * *

His return to District One is celebrated for hours. Marvel wants nothing more than to abandon the dinner and all the parties, but Cashmere had tutted at him and told him to chin up.

After the mayor has congratulated him for the twenty-second time, he slips out of the manor and walks alone across the square, chilled this time of night. He walks through the gate to the Victor's Village and turns the lock in a familiar door. He doesn't bother to turn any of the lights on and trudges his way upstairs, twisting the wonted doorknob. It turns to gold under his touch. He slips into his old bed, still made from the last time he was here, corners not quite straight.

He pulls the covers up under his own chin and squeezes his eyes shut. Outside, the festivities are still blaring, but Marvel can't hear them anymore. He's alone in his golden room with his ghosts.

* * *

**author's notes: **this is for a _lot _of things, okay. It's for Caesar's Palace's monthly oneshot challenge and the gold prompt from the Colors set. It's also a belated birthday present for Paige and Nami's GGE13 fic. Many thanks to Zoey and Lucy (who also gave me the last names) for editing, but all my mistakes are my own.

The title is from the song of the same name by The Cinematic Orchestra. I don't own _The Hunger Games._


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